by Chip Hughes
“These two are dark,” I said. “Do you have a light-colored one?”
“Dang-it, boy!” Picket slapped his thigh. “If yah’da been here the other day. Ah got the nicest, sunniest golden retriever ya ever seed. This here dog was a beaut, ah tell you.”
“That sounds like the dog I want.” I tried not to appear too anxious. “Where is he?”
“Ah ain’t suppose to say. Ya know how it is.”
I reached for my wallet. “Sammy Bob, I know you’re an honest businessman—a man of integrity.” I watched his scabby face take on a proud look. “And I know you wouldn’t betray your customer, but if he or she was to sell me this dog, I would cut you in. Say, two hundred?”
“Boy, trouble is, ya doan know where to look.”
“Half the commission up front,” I sweetened the deal. “One hundred now. One hundred when the sale goes through.”
“OK, George, tell ya what ah gonna do.” He stroked his beard. “Ah gonna tell ya where to go. But ah want all the money up front. All two hundert in cash.”
“I haven’t got it with me.” I opened my wallet for him to see—four twenties, one ten, one five, and several ones.
He thought it over. “Ya gonna pay me the other hundert when ya buy that-thar dog?”
“Yes.” I knew I wouldn’t and he probably knew I wouldn’t, but we had to go through the charade for his self-respect.
I reached into my wallet and gathered up the bills. “Here’s the money.” I held it in front of him.
He snatched the bills from my hand. “Georgie boy, you gotta fly Maui, then drive to Lahaina.”
“Lahaina?”
“One of them big houses on the ocean. Now there’s lots of condos on the beach, but there ain’t that many oceanfront homes. So ya should find it easy.” He walked back out to the main room.
“Do you have a name? An address?”
“Ah plum forget, George.” Picket put on a sincere face. Then he casually reached over and rested his hand on his shotgun, where it leaned inside the doorway.
“Well, if you remember, call me.” I gave him my home number—the answering machine there did not mention my name.
As I turned to leave his shack, I asked, “What’s going to happen to those goldens? And all those dogs outside?”
“Ah gonna fine ‘em good homes.” He flashed a smile. “Ah does a good business.”
The pit bulls snarled at me as I passed. Whines and howls of other captives followed me all the way back to the car. I was glad to get away. But I felt a tug of conscience with each step I took.
Turn him in, a voice inside me said. Turn him in.
But I couldn’t yet, not until I found Kula. And to do that, I might have to call on Sammy Bob Picket again.
twenty-three
As my Maui-bound plane lifted off over Hilo Bay I congratulated myself that the famous surfing dog might be waiting for me in Lahaina. But why would anyone go to the trouble and expense to ship a stolen dog to several different islands? I wondered again what was really behind the case. A missing person? Murder? Even more puzzling to me was what made a hoarder like Sammy Bob Picket, or puppy mill owner like Lou, mistreat animals. It reminded me—sadly—of an episode from my small kid time in Hawai‘i.
* * *
Before my parents died, my father thought it would be a good idea for my dog Pono to be obedience trained—to learn to heel, sit, and lie down on command. Since I was too young to take him to class alone, my father and I went together. The trainer was a rigid, severe woman of the old school who got very physical with the dogs. I saw her once yank a tiny terrier off its feet with a choke chain. When the terrier yelped instead of obeying, the trainer’s corrections got even more physical. I covered my eyes.
One day it was Pono’s turn. The trainer commanded “Down!” Pono, of course, had no idea what to do. Then she yanked him south so hard that Pono flopped onto the ground. He got back up. The trainer commanded “Down!” again. He didn’t. She yanked harder. Pono flipped over and whimpered. The corrections continued.
I ran to him and covered his trembling body with mine. “Stop hurting Pono!”
My father gently peeled me off the dog. “Kai, this is how Pono will learn to obey.”
“I don’t care if he obeys,” I cried.
I saw my father and the trainer exchanged glances.
We never came back to that class. And ever since that day, whenever I see someone abusing an animal I remember Pono and I feel like I should do something. So I couldn’t agree more with Maile—people who harm helpless creatures are the lowest of the low. Pono’s trainer was not in the same league with Sammy Bob or Lou, but in my childhood memories she was just as bad.
* * *
At Kahului Airport, I slipped into my second rental car of the day and headed for the historic whaling port of Lahaina, on West Maui’s leeward coast. It was already late in the day and carloads of tourists and kama‘aina commuters were making the slow trek west on seaside Honoapi‘ilani Highway, also known as Route 30, that leads beyond Lahaina to the resorts of Kā‘anapali and Kapalua. Needless to say, the highway was jammed.
Sitting in traffic, I wondered if I’d make it to Lahaina before sundown. Otherwise, I’d have to wander around in the dark looking for an oceanfront home for which Sammy Bob had refused to give an address. I thought again about his starving animals. Well-fed and well-groomed dogs would bring more on the open market. So why keep them in such horrible shape? Was Picket a sad story like Lou’s husband—wounded by war? Or was he simply depraved?
I finally reached Lahaina town just after 6:00 p.m. I pulled into a service station and checked a Maui phone directory for veterinary clinics. There was only one in Lahaina. Good news. But would the clinic be open at this hour? I hoped so. I wanted to avoid the added time and expense of spending the night in Lahaina, unless it was absolutely necessary. Plus, the sooner I made contact with Kula, the sooner I could close the case.
I dialed and waited three rings. “Lahaina Animal Clinic,” a perky receptionist answered. “This is Caitlin.”
“Hi, I’m a member of the Golden Retriever Club,” I launched into an elaborate lie, “and I’m following up on an adoption. Has a golden retriever—male, about three years old, light in color—been brought in for a checkup in the last few days?”
“He has,” she said with certainty. “What a gorgeous animal! And I assure you,” she continued, “Boomer received the best medical care.”
Boomer? “I’m sure he did. And so I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m on my way to visit Boomer in his new home, but I’ve lost the house number. I thought you might have it.”
She hesitated. “Well, I do. But our policy . . .”
“I understand,” I said. “It’s just that I drove all the way from Upcountry and I haven’t been able to reach the owner by phone. I thought I had the right number, but . . .”I paused. “It’s getting so late—I hate to turn around and go all the way back.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m sure Mrs. Varda wouldn’t mind . . .”
* * *
Armed with Mrs. Varda’s address and phone number I drove north along Front Street, watching the sun sink over Lahaina town. The bars and eateries on the bustling seaside strip were hopping. But farther up the beach, where posh oceanfront homes nestled peacefully on the shore, you could hear trade winds whispering in the palms and shore break lapping the sand.
Like most seaside residences in this pricy neighborhood, Mrs. Varda’s resembled a walled fortress from the street. Two identical garages with separate driveways stood at the extreme ends of her property. Their windows revealed a Jaguar convertible inside one and a pewter Mercedes inside the other. Between the garages ran a high lava rock wall and an even higher grove of areca palms. Even if Kula had become the mascot of this lavish estate, there was no seeing him, or anything, from my vantage point.
I walked down a nearby beach access to get a glimpse of the place from the water: two stories with a tile roof in china-blu
e. The ocean side was all glass, glowing in the setting sun. I could see no one inside the house or outside on the grounds, which included a kidney-shaped swimming pool, lounge chairs, chaises, potted palms, and a putting green. No one was swimming in the pool either. Only a yellow tennis ball floated in the water.
A mock orange hedge with a teak gate surrounded the beach side of the property, but the hedge was not so high that I couldn’t peek over. Nice place. But no dog in sight.
I called his name: “Kula.”
A minute passed.
I called again.
It was going to get dark soon. I was running out of time.
Then it happened. From behind a palm, where I guess he’d been napping, the golden retriever dove into the pool—Splash!—and swam after the tennis ball. Even half-swallowed by his own wake, his blond coat was unmistakable. He was alone, but he kept looking around, as if to see who’d called his name.
“Kula,” I tried again.”
He glanced my way with those vivid brown eyes. The contrast between the eyes and his almost white face was striking. The photos hadn’t done him justice. He was every bit as stunning as Buckingham had said. I could see why someone might want to steal him.
Kula climbed from the pool and walked toward me. His tail flicked water every which way. His gold fur dripped on the deck. His gleaming white teeth clenched the yellow ball.
When he reached the gate he shook, drenching everything in sight, including me. His wagging tail picked up speed.
Then he barked. Not an aggressive bark. A social bark. But loud.
“Shh . . . Kula . . .”
A glass door in the house slid open and out stepped one of those wealthy middle-aged women whose bleached hair and perpetual smile look plastered in place.
I crouched behind the hedge.
“Boomer?” Mrs. Varda strolled on the pool deck. “Boomer-boy!”
The golden retriever, hearing his new name so soon after the old, looked suddenly confused. He tilted his head, peered at me, and then trotted back toward the house. He stopped before reaching Mrs. Varda and shook again. She draped a big beach towel over him and tenderly patted his damp coat.
“Does Boomer-boy like swimming in Nanah’s pool?” Out came the baby talk. “Oh, yes, he does! Oh, yes he does!” She was in love.
Kula glanced back toward the hedge.
I did not approach Mrs. Varda. Whether she was unaware that the dog she purchased had been stolen or she was part of the scheme, she wasn’t about to hand him over to a strange man popping up from behind her hedge. Not likely at all.
To do this job right I needed a pet recovery expert. I knew just the one. But she was in Utah at the moment. The liberation of the famous surfing dog would have to wait for another day.
twenty-four
As the setting sun silhouetted the island of Lāna‘i like a humpback whale cruising across the channel, I hopped in my rental and drove back to Kahului Airport. By 8:40 I was airborne to Honolulu. By 10:00 I was in Mānoa feeding the cats. I wished Maile was there so I could tell her the good news.
Same drill as before. While Coconut and Peppah devoured their dinners in the kitchen, I catered to Lolo again on my hands and knees under Maile’s bed. I felt slightly guilty about feeding the felines at such an hour, but apparently they were fine. And Maile would never know.
When I pulled away thirty minutes later I was feeling on top of the world. My first and only pet case was almost closed and I had hopes the fee would carry me until my next case—a real one with people. Not dogs and the scum that abuse them. It was too late to call Buckingham. The good news would have to wait until morning.
Then, as I drove down East Mānoa Road, I had second thoughts. Yes, I‘d finally found Kula, and, yes, I could trace his disappearance back to Sammy Bob on the Big Island. But how had the retriever gotten there? Was Picket involved somehow in Moku Taliaferro’s murder? And in Cheyenne Sin’s disappearance?
* * *
Back at the Waikīkī Edgewater, I had two phone messages, the first from Madison: “Kai, Conrad called again from L.A.” She was talking fast. “I think he suspects something.”
Usually the essence of cool, Madison seldom showed concern about anything, let alone her husband. Even Twinkie was yipping frantically in the background.
“I’m sure it’s only a bluff,” Madison hurried on, “but Conrad says he’s flying to Honolulu . . . Twinkie, hush!”
I skipped ahead to the second message: “Don’t make me come after you, Kai,” Detective Fernandez growled. “You’ve got two choices. Tell me who you’re working for or I’m bringing you in for Moku’s murder. I’ll give you the weekend. I better hear from you by Monday.”
* * *
Frank Fernandez’s voice was still ringing in my ears when I woke up Sunday morning. I had a feeling of dread. One day left to give Fernandez an answer.
After breakfast it was still too early to call Buckingham, so I phoned Maile. It was about noon then in Utah and I imagined her workshop took Sundays off.
“Kai,” she answered on the first ring, “How are you?”
“Well,” I said, happy to hear her voice.
“And how are you getting on with the cats?”
“Peppah glommed on to me right away, Coconut barely blinked, and Lolo ran for cover.”
“You described them to a tee.”
“And how’s your workshop?”
“Fantastic,” she said. “I’m learning so much about animal sanctuaries, no-kill shelters, and stuff like that. Well worth the trip.”
“That’s good . . .” I hesitated. “Good.”
“Is there something wrong, Kai?”
“Wrong? No. I just wanted to tell you the good news.”
“What good news?”
“Remember Kula?”
“How could I forget that beautiful retriever?”
“Thanks to your advice, I found him.”
“Brilliant, Kai! I’m so glad.”
“Yes, it’s a bit of a miracle, really.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks . . . uh . . . I should call my client, now that it’s a decent hour here. Lehua is going to be jumping with joy.”
“I’m sure she will,” Maile said.
I had an inspiration. “Why don’t we go out and celebrate when you get back?”
She was quiet for a moment. My knees suddenly felt weak. I found myself blurting out: “What do you say, Maile?”
“Sure, Kai, I’d like that.”
“Excellent,” I said. “After all, it was you who told me how to find Kula.”
“I was glad to help.”
“Okay, I better call Buckingham.” I said. “See you soon.”
“I’ll look forward.” she said.
When she hung up I realized that I had neglected to tell her that while I had found Kula, I hadn’t actually brought him home. And that I needed her help for that. A small detail that could wait for her return.
* * *
Still glowing from Maile’s congratulations, I prepared myself mentally for the barrage of thanks and attaboys I would soon receive from my client. I dialed Buckingham’s Tantalus mansion.
“Good news, sir,” I said. “I located your dog.”
Buckingham didn’t say a word.
“I’m sure your daughter will be very happy,” I added.
“Why don’t you pop up here, Mr. Cooke.” There was a ragged edge to his velvet voice I hadn’t heard before. “I have something to tell you that I’d rather not discuss on the phone.”
My sense of dread returned. “I’ll be right there.”
* * *
Weaving up Tantalus Drive I wasn’t so much wondering about Buckingham’s strange tone, as I was recalling Mrs. Gum’s allegation that he had killed his wife. And that shadowy face in a second floor window, ducking behind a curtain when our eyes met. Were my client’s tone and the mysterious figure connected some way? Now I was really grabbing at straws.
I pulled to
the curb in front of Mrs. Gum’s colonial, walked across the street to Wonderview, and was buzzed through. Buckingham himself, without his daughter this time, met me at his dark koa doors, appearing as bleak as he had sounded on the phone. Even his three-piece suit, the same shade of charcoal he had worn at our first interview, did not soften his desperation.
“Mr. Cooke, there is something we must discuss.” The edginess I had heard on the phone now sounded close to panic, the way people talk just before they lose it.
He led me into his sunken living room. I sat while he paced in front of the ocean-view glass, his dark figure a somber contrast to the sunlit sea below. Lehua still had not appeared.
“I asked you to come here, Mr. Cooke, because there is something I have to tell you that I didn’t want to say on the phone.”
“Is it about your golden retriever, sir?” I was still hoping for that cash reward, plus my fee. “I’ll have Kula home to you shortly.”
“You’ve done a superb job finding my daughter’s pet. Superb. I wonder, though, if you have discovered why her dog was stolen.”
“Why, sir?” I was taken aback by this unexpected question. “You hired me to find the dog, not the thief’s motives.”
“Right you are, Mr. Cooke. You’ve done your job and, I assure you, you will be rewarded.” Before he got to specifics about my money, Buckingham appeared to think better of it and shifted direction. “But at present I have another problem that’s more in your usual line.”
“Another problem?” What now?
He paused and stared down at the sea. “My daughter’s gone missing.”
“Your daughter, sir?”
“She failed to return home from summer school Friday and I haven’t seen her since,” Buckingham said.
